


make your life a work of art

by lussa



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:39:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23073988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lussa/pseuds/lussa
Summary: Sometimes in life you have to be vulnerable.  Other times in life you have to do your dishes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	make your life a work of art

“God damn it, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, looking at the sink. It was full to bursting with dishes, food sloughing off plates and plates spilling over onto the counter.

Bucky took a steadying breath, pulled a marker from his pocket, and made a tally mark on the sign which hung above the sink and which read ‘_Times Bucky Has Done Steve’s Dishes’. _ It had about the same number of tally marks as the sign on the fridge _‘Times Bucky Has Thrown Out Steve’s Rotting Food’ _ , but not as many as the sign by the couch _ ‘Times Bucky Has Put Steve’s Shit Back In His Room’. _

The signs were more for Bucky than for Steve. Steve never seemed to notice how many tally marks accumulated on the signs or dishes in the sink, though he was always genuinely remorseful whenever Bucky pointed out how much extra work he did. Then he’d offer to pay more rent to make up for it, which was a dick move given that Bucky made three times what Steve did and had been begging to take on more rent for years. 

The point was, Steve wasn’t trying to take advantage of Bucky - he simply didn’t care about the dishes. He cared about as much about the dishes as he cared about the threats of a bully or a line of cops at a street protest. 

Still. Good intentions didn’t wash dishes.

Bucky couldn’t face the sink without a cup of coffee. He started a pot brewing and began to pick carefully through the dirty dishes in search of a mug. But he couldn’t find one. Somehow, despite the sink seeming to contain every dish they owned, there were no mugs.

“God damn it, Rogers!” 

Bucky cursed again, loud enough to wake a normal person, but Steve was not in any way a normal person and could sleep through a war. Even when Bucky stomped over to Steve’s room and knocked twice, he didn’t respond.

Bucky pushed the door open anyway. Sure enough, Steve was sprawled across his bed, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. He was wearing his clothes from yesterday and sleeping on his pajamas. Bucky wanted to crawl in bed with him, wanted to kiss his open mouth, but he forced himself to look away and when he did he spotted three mugs scattered across Steve’s desk and dresser, and he remembered why he’d stormed in here.

Bucky grabbed the mugs and placed them outside Steve’s door, then kneeled on the floor to see if he could find any others. Sure enough, there were two more under the bed, and one under the desk, and another, hopefully empty, mug on Steve’s bedside table that had his glasses sticking out of it. Bucky reached for the one under Steve’s desk, which was lying ominously on its side. Looking closer, he could see that the mug’s contents had spilled all over the papers it was resting on, soaking into whatever lay beneath -

“_God damn it, Rogers! _”

Behind him, Steve finally stirred. “What - ?” he asked muzzily, sitting up to look at Bucky.

Bucky pushed aside the papers and grabbed the oil painting that lay beneath. It was a still life, a painting of Steve’s own backpack, the bright colors of his various badges and pins proclaiming ‘WOMEN’S RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS’ and ‘BLACK LIVES MATTER’. A gooey brown river ran through the middle of the painting. He picked up the painting and shook it at Steve.

“What?” Steve asked again, more clearly this time.

“You’re a god damn mess,” said Bucky, too worked up to be polite about it. “You ruined your painting!”

Steve shrugged. 

Bucky shook the painting again. “Shit like this is why I’m always telling you to clean up after yourself!”

“What does it matter?” Steve said. He picked his glasses out of the mug on his bedside table and put them on, peering closer at the painting. “It’s just an exercise.”

Bucky frowned. Steve had said, “What does it matter?” before even seeing which painting had been ruined. The phrase rang in his ears - it was as if Steve thought none of his paintings had any value. 

Well screw _ that_.

Bucky abandoned his quest to retrieve all the mugs, and started gathering up Steve’s paintings instead. “Buck, what are you - “

“Shut it, Rogers.” Bucky left the painting that was out on Steve’s desk, and the one half-finished on his easel, but he picked up the rest - the canvass crushed beneath a stack of books, the piece tossed haphazardly near the foot of the bed where it might be stepped on, the pile on the edge of the dresser, one mild breeze away from crashing to the floor.

He brought them into his room and placed them carefully on his bed. Then he turned to face Steve, who’d followed him. “If you don’t care what happens to them, what does it matter if I have them?” he asked.

Steve’s jaw worked as he tried to come up with a good answer. “It’s too early for this,” he said at last. “Did you make coffee?”

Bucky glared at him. “About that…”

*

Three weeks and a half dozen tally marks later, Bucky was working out a tough engineering problem at this desk when Steve knocked on his open door. Bucky gestured for him to come in and he did so, holding out two tickets in his right hand.

“What are these?” Bucky asked, taking them.

“There’s this ‘history of the future’ exposition at NYU this weekend. It’s about, like, the history of science fiction - Jules Verne, Mary Shelly, Da Vinci, they’ve got a whole section on those old pulps from the thirties and forties you love - anyway, I thought maybe you’d want to go?”

“Of course I want,” said Bucky. He grinned at Steve. This was probably to make up for how messy Steve had been lately, but maybe it wasn’t - Steve was the kind of guy who’d do something nice for you just ‘cause he thought of it. It used to get Bucky real worked up until he realized Steve didn’t mean anything romantic by it. “You’re coming too, right?”

“If you like,” said Steve, and Bucky was about to say ‘of course I like’ but then he noticed Steve noticing his walls.

Bucky had taken Steve’s paintings and gotten each of them framed. They weren’t done all custom - Bucky wasn’t made of money - but he’d thought a lot about what kind of frame and color matte would go with each and how they’d look together up on his walls. He’d had to take down what was up there before, but he was glad to. Every morning since he put up Steve’s paintings, he’d woken up with just a - a surge of joy, was the only way he could put it, sappy as it was. Steve was just so talented, and Bucky was so lucky.

Bucky waited for Steve to say something, but he just stared. At first his brow was furrowed, like he was confused by what Bucky had done. As he understood his cheeks flushed red. “You didn’t have to,” he muttered.

“Of course I did,” said Bucky, and Steve brought his hands up to his face so that Bucky couldn’t see it. Then he just _ left_.

Bucky wasn’t sure he should follow. Was Steve angry? Or was he pleased and unwilling to admit it?

It was only a few days later that he understood. He’d fallen asleep on the couch and was inching his way upright when he spotted Steve leaving something by his door. He watched, entranced, as Steve carefully leaned his latest painting against the doorframe. His fingers lingered along the edge of it, as though it was - as though it was precious to him.

_Oh_, thought Bucky. He stared at the painting long after Steve had disappeared back into his room.

*

Saturday night found Bucky pulling on his favorite outfit, though they were just meeting Sam and Nat at the bar down the street. He took a moment to study himself in the mirror, running his hands through his hair until it looked just the way he wanted it to. 

“It looks exactly the same as before,” Steve grumbled.

Steve was ready, of course. He dressed the same for a night out as he did anything else - with a clean t-shirt and a challenging glare that seemed to ask, ‘what more do you want?’ 

(Frankly, Bucky found that expression on Steve more attractive than any leather jeans or smoky eyeshadow could have been. But he kept that to himself - Steve didn’t care about things like that.)

“Ready,” Bucky said, grabbing a thin, rectangular, gift-wrapped package from his closet and heading towards the door.

Steve spent the short walk to the bar clearly struggling not to ask about the present, but when they got to their usual table and Sam and Nat weren’t there yet, he finally broke. “Is that one of my paintings?” he asked.

“Yup,” said Bucky.

“What are you doing with it?” Steve asked. “Buck? Why’s it gift-wrapped?” 

Bucky leaned back so the server could fill up their water glasses. “You’re a smart fella,” he said, “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“You can’t give one of my paintings to Sam and Nat!”

“I thought you didn’t care what happened to them?”

“I don’t care,” said Steve. “It’s just - they won’t want it, trust me.”

“How about _ you _ trust _ me_,” Bucky said, “because I think they’ll be crazy about getting a Steve Rogers original.”

Steve frowned. “They’re just gonna take it so they don’t hurt my feelings.”

“How are you this stupid about yourself?” Bucky asked, angry at Steve and also on behalf of him. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna give this painting to Sam and Nat, and when you do, you watch their reactions. You’re the painter, you study people - you know when someone’s faking emotions. If you can honestly tell me they’re faking it, I’ll buy all your drinks tonight, and I’ll leave you alone about the paintings.” _ For now _, he thought. Like hell was he going to drop the subject forever.

“Fine,” grumbled Steve.

Sam and Nat arrived a few minutes later. There were the usual hugs and a round of drinks. Sam told a long story about his work at the VA and was about to launch into another when Bucky elbowed Steve. He knew if Steve didn’t give them the painting soon he’d come up with an excuse not to.

“All right, all right,” Steve muttered, pulling it out. He held the present awkwardly over the table. “This is for you guys. You don’t have to keep it.”

Sam looked confused at that, but Nat snatched up the package, feeling the size and the weight of it, a genuine grin growing on her face. She sliced open the wrapping paper with one of her manicured nails.

Bucky had spent what felt like hours deciding on which painting to gift. He’d finally settled on a landscape of the lake house they went to every summer. In the foreground of the painting was a campfire with beer bottles and s’mores supplies and something from each of them - Nat’s sunglasses, one of Bucky’s pulps, Sam’s running shoes, Steve’s sketchbook. When he looked at the painting he felt like he was there at the house, surrounded by the people he loved most in the world. He wanted badly to keep it for himself, and so he knew it was the right one to give away.

Nat had the painting propped up on her lap so Steve couldn’t see which one it was. The only thing to watch was their reaction. Nat couldn’t stop staring at it. Sam leaned over her shoulder and let out a deep exhalation. “Holy shit, Steve,” he said, “it’s like we’re right there.”

Nat raised her gaze from the painting up to Steve. Her eyes were just a little bit wet. “Thank you,” she said, voice low with emotion, and then: “You’re an idiot to think we wouldn’t want to keep this.”

Steve’s face flushed red again. Bucky understood now what that meant - that was Steve getting it through his thick skull that he was talented, that his art meant something to his friends.

Nat began to wrap up the painting again, giving both her and Steve a moment. Sam got up to give Steve a hug. “Thank you, man,” Bucky heard Sam say. “You don’t know what this means to us.” 

Steve excused himself to go get a round of drinks. No one offered to go with him - they all knew he needed a minute. 

Sam sat back down, shaking his head. “I can't believe it's finally happened,” he said, nodding at the re-wrapped painting. “I thought Nat was going to have to steal us one of these.”

Bucky laughed, but then he lowered his voice and looked at them seriously. “I think he's wanted to give you a painting this whole time. He's just worried you won't like it, so he pretends he doesn’t care about it.”

“Of course he’s pretending,” said Nat.

Bucky glared at Nat, because he’d worked hard for that insight, and she'd probably figured it minutes after meeting Steve. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Every man deserves his defense mechanisms.”

Bucky was still chewing on that when a crash sounded from near the bar. They turned in unison towards it.

“God damn it, Rogers,” said Sam.

It only took them a few seconds to reach Steve, but by the time they did he was already being held up and back by another patron. He was blinking hard, maybe because he'd been punched in the face, or maybe just 'cause the punch had left him without his glasses. Another man was being held by the bartender. He was tall and scowling and wearing a Yankees cap and even if he hadn’t probably hit Steve, Bucky would’ve hated him on sight.

“I didn’t mean to start anything,” Steve was saying, “I just pointed out he was taking the bartender’s tips.”

“I didn’t take anything,” spat the Yankee.

“I know what I saw.”

“Why don’t you empty your pockets?” asked the bartender.

“It’s offensive that you’d even ask me that - “

“I’ll empty my pockets,” offered Steve.

“Yeah,” piped up Sam, “I’ll empty mine too.”

“We can all empty our pockets,” said Bucky. “It’ll be a fun group activity.”

“Oh, fuck you all,” said the Yankee. He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket, crumpled up like he’d stuck it in their fast. A receipt came loose and floated towards the floor. The bartender bent to pick it up it and when he did, Yankee spun out of his grasp, but Nat was right there. She grabbed his arms and held them behind his back until the bouncer and the manager arrived. 

“Thanks, dude,” the bartender told Steve once they left, “let me get you some ice for your eye.”

The person who’d been holding onto Steve - a short woman balanced confidently on three-inch heels - took the chance to apologize to him.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Steve. 

“I’m not worried about it,” said the woman. “Just impressed that you’d put yourself out there like that for a stranger.” She eyed Steve approvingly.

Steve didn't see it. He'd found his glasses on the floor and was busy cleaning them. “It’s not a big deal,” he told her.

“Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink to thank you?”

“I don't need any thanks,” Steve insisted.

The woman sighed but moved on quick enough, turning back to her friends at the bar. Nat laughed at Steve. “Only _ you _ could strike out with a woman trying to buy you a drink,” she said.

Bucky chuckled, and Steve stiffened, then shrugged. “What does it matter?” he said. 

Bucky looked at him sharply. All the happiness and confidence Steve had been glowing with after giving Nat and Sam the painting was completely gone, and the tough single-mindedness with which he’d faced down the tip thief had faded. Now Steve seemed disappointed. In himself? In the world? Bucky couldn’t tell.

_ What does it matter? _

They headed home after that, Bucky wanting more than a napkin full of cocktail ice to put on Steve’s face. He and Steve didn’t talk much as they walked. Bucky was still trying to figure out what he was missing.

Then they got home, and Bucky went to get an ice pack from the freezer, and when he turned around Steve was walking by his room. 

The last couple of weeks Bucky had been catching Steve stealing glances into Bucky’s room. He’d look at his art framed and hung on the walls and smile soft like he couldn’t help himself. It was maybe the best thing Bucky’d ever seen. But tonight Steve walked by Bucky’s door with his head straight forward as if he was forcing himself not to look inside. Like he was punishing himself.

Bucky ran a little to catch up with him. “You do care, don’t you,” he breathed.

“What are you talking about,” said Steve.

“Flirting. Striking out. Dating.” Bucky waved his hands to encompass all of it. “You’re just pretending not to care.”

Steve shrugged, but now Bucky knew that shrug for what it was - a kind of armor.

“What does it matter,” Steve said, yet again, but Bucky wasn’t having it anymore.

“Are you asking me?” Bucky said. “Is that an actual question? ‘What does it matter?’”

Steve didn’t answer, but then he nodded very slightly.

“It matters to _ me_. _ I _ care whether you’re happy, or just pretending to be. Whether you want to date people or not. Shit, Steve, I’d have made a move on you years ago if I thought you’d be open to it, but I always thought, well, I’d know already if you were. You don’t hide things. I thought you didn’t hide things.”

“Everybody hides things, Buck,” said Steve.

And that was fair. That was very fair, given how Bucky’d kept his own feelings hidden. “It’s just that you’re the bravest person I know,” he said. “It’s hard to imagine you afraid of anything.”

“There’s a couple things,” admitted Steve, and his gaze dropped down to Bucky’s lips.

Was that a signal? Bucky wasn’t sure, but if Steve was afraid then it was on Bucky to be brave. He took a step towards Steve, coming close enough to make his intentions clear but leaving space for Steve to step away.

But Steve stood still, eyes wide, his lips edging up into a smile even as Bucky leaned down and kissed them.

The kiss was soft but urgent; it felt sudden, but also inevitable. Bucky brought his hands up to Steve’s face to hold him there, and Steve pressed into him, grabbing onto Bucky’s shirt like he was afraid to lose him, and Bucky needed to make it clear, he needed to make it clear with his words and his hands and his kisses, just how impossible it was for Steve to lose him. “I’ve wanted this for years,” he whispered, breathing hard into Steve’s neck, and Steve shivered and said, “Me too.”

They kissed for what felt like hours - and maybe it actually was, Bucky wasn’t checking the clock - until Steve finally pulled back.

“Your bedroom?” asked Steve.

“Well, yeah,” said Bucky, “yours is a complete sty.”

“Sweet talker.”

“I’m just saying, when I fantasize about undressing you, I don’t imagine it on a pile of dirty laundry.”

“You have to admit that would be convenient,” said Steve.

“God damn it, Rogers.”  
  
They were still giggling when they made it to Bucky’s bed and reached for each other again.

*

Some hours later, Steve shifted in his sleep and woke Bucky up. In the street lights that trickled in through the blinds and through the half-closed curtains, Bucky could see Steve’s chest rise and fall with each breath, the slight wetness on his lips, the peaceful expression on his face. Framed by Bucky’s own body, he looked more beautiful than any piece of art.


End file.
